


Unheralded Attolis

by Drollittle



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-05-07 03:28:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14662364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drollittle/pseuds/Drollittle
Summary: The Little Peninsula is finally at peace, and it’s high time for Eugenides to get back to doing whatever he wants.





	1. Capitation

King Attolis Eugenides was a marvel. He had saved Teleus’ life more than once, and Teleus respected him fervently. At the age of fifteen, Eugenides had stolen the ancient stone called Hamiathes’ Gift and handed it over to his cousin to secure her position as queen of Eddis; at nineteen he had stolen the heart of the most fiercely independent woman in the known world; at twenty he had stolen authority over Attolia, Eddis, and Sounis; and at twenty-four he had stolen the entire empire of Mede, only to hand most of his power, like Hamiathes’ Gift, back over to whomever he deemed the proper ruler of each province or city-state. His only dictatorial decree had been to abolish slavery (though it was going to be a struggle to enforce). Yes, the king was a marvel.

Teleus wanted to shake him.

Teleus had woken, ready for a peaceful orderly day at the royal megaron of Attolia, to find a small scroll on his nightstand. In the king’s handwriting, it said:

“Captain, the queen and I are going on a vacation. We have Costis and Ileia with us, and we forbid you to look for us or worry about us, on pain of decapitation. Keep the megaron and the city secure. If we have not returned in two months, then you have permission to worry.

~ATTOLIS”

Teleus rushed to dress and stormed out of his room, swearing as he barged into Costis’ room—empty—and then ran across a courtyard toward the king’s apartments.

Their Majesties had not made any arrangements for this—their schedules were full of official meetings, and what was Teleus going to say to the Barons and Ambassadors who had traveled here for an audience? Then a worse thought occurred to him: could someone have forged the note, and kidnapped or assassinated Attolis and Attolia?

Surely not...Teleus clutched at reasons to dismiss the idea. First, there was the king’s distinctive left-handed writing, and who else could have snuck into Teleus’ room when he kept both his window and door locked?

Then, there was the unconquerable nature of both the king and queen. They would not have been taken noiselessly.

Then, there was _Costis_. Teleus had seen Costis speaking to Ileia, a pretty attendant to the queen, yesterday, and Costis had looked so thoroughly embarrassed that Teleus had assumed there was something going on between them...if only he had known it was a secret of a different sort.

Last, and most convincingly, there was the king’s wretched sense of humor. Perhaps, just perhaps, the note was a joke and Attolis was still safely asleep in his room.

Teleus met Phresine in the hallway.

“Are the king and queen here?”

“No,” she answered serenely.

“You were granted the privilege of knowing about their ‘vacation’ before they disappeared?”

“This last week Ileia and I have had the most unusual privilege of altering some of Attolia’s old gowns into tunics and trousers.”

Teleus tried to picture his queen in such clothing. She would still be beautiful—she could never be anything but beautiful, and she could never look as mannish as Eddis did in trousers—but it was still an odd idea. He shook his head.

“How long ago did they leave?”

“You aren’t thinking of looking for them, are you?” Phresine asked wryly.

“No...but what are we going to _do_? Anything could happen—”

“You aren’t worrying, are you?”

Teleus attempted to mirror her calm demeanor, but it was no good. “Yes. Yes, I am worrying. I’ll just have to hope he takes my head off quickly, and not with a blunt practice sword.”


	2. Stealing a Thief

The city prison was rank and dark, hunger gnawed at Kettia, and worst of all, she had no idea what had become of Phidas after she had been caught that afternoon. She and her little brother had been living on the streets since their mother’s death, stealing food whenever they couldn’t find odd jobs. Phidas had only her. Face in hands, she spent hours imagining him lost in the street, kidnapped, trampled under a cart...

Kettia couldn’t blame the baker. She remembered her father hauling a thief to the guard and telling her they couldn’t hope to make a living if they let people swipe their fish without paying. That seemed like lifetimes ago, when she had had a place in this harsh world.

There was a click.

The cell door swung open silently and a figure in black stood there like a phantom—she hadn’t heard him approach. He put his finger to his lips, and beckoned to her.

She shook her head, and considered calling out to the prison guard. Prison was bad, but the guards were accountable and they would let her out in a few days, whereas she had no idea who this was or what he wanted.

“Kettia, I’m here to help you.” he whispered, and his voice was reassuring. “Phidas is with my wife—we saw you get arrested and we’ve been looking after him.”

Kettia stood. She wasn’t bound, so she easily followed him out of the cell and toward the back of the prison. There he found footholds in the wall, and with just one hand lifted himself up to look out a tiny, barred window. “All clear,” he whispered as he climbed down, then pushed a stone out of the wall. They both squeezed through the small gap and he replaced the stone.

“There are secrets like that in most prisons,” the man whispered. “My grandfather knew them all.”

They escaped unnoticed into the darkness of the street. The man in black led Kettia through the city to an alley between humble crowded homes. They ascended a staircase and entered a room, where Kettia was accosted by her brother. She held his little head to her shoulder and relief flooded through her. She smelled something savory, and looked around, assessing the pot of seaweed soup over the fire and the four adults. Besides the dark olive-skinned man in black, there was a peasant woman, a muscular man, and a goddess (or so she seemed). The goddess had shiny black hair elaborately done up with gold pins, and a tunic and loose flowing trousers of blue silk.

“Come in and eat,” she invited.

Kettia gratefully did so, and then they provided her and Phidas with blankets. Kettia was drifting off to sleep when she heard the goddess and the man in black going out to explore the city, leaving the other two with the sleeping children.

It was still dark when they woke her. The man in black gave her a pack, and the goddess said, “there are supplies and food for the two-day walk westward to Baron Orrel and Lady Via’s estate; I know them for generous people. Tell Lady Via you are orphans, and she will find a position for you. Pack your blankets now, and we can all be on our way.”

“Where are you going?” Phidas asked, obviously hoping they would travel together, but the goddess said, “South.”

The other woman gave them each an orange for breakfast and everyone cleared out of the room, into the chilly early morning.

“Are we going by the rooftops?” the large man asked.

The man in black nodded. He patted Phidas on the head and said, “our ways part here. Look after each other. And Kettia, the trick is to get your stolen items hidden as soon as possible. If you’d slipped the bread into a bag and then walked on without that guilty look on your face, they wouldn’t have caught you.”

“They won’t be needing to steal anymore,” the goddess said with a glare. “Be blessed in your travels,” she added, one of her boots already set in a crack in the bricks.

“Thank you very much for everything,” Kettia said, and then her curiosity overcame caution and she asked, “are you Philia?”

“What? The goddess of mercy?” the goddess stared for a time, making Kettia worry that she had offended. “No, child, I am not Philia. Go now, the guards at the west gate won’t recognize you from yesterday.”

They scaled the walls with exceptional agility.

“You should get something less stunning to wear, my dear,” the man said as they climbed. His right hand was curiously stiff, and he used mainly his left.

“You’ve convinced me to wear trousers,” the goddess snapped. “You will _not_ make me dress like a peasant.”

“I won’t make you do anything, but if you want to mingle with peasants without being recognized as a queen, or a goddess...”

The mysterious foursome disappeared over the rooftop. Kettia and Phidas set their course toward Lady Via and hope for the future.


	3. The Rueful Slavemaster

Nachum blew out the candles in his children's nursery and wearily trod down the empty staircase and through empty passages to the large kitchen, where his wife, Rivka, was washing dishes alone. He found a cloth and started to dry them. He didn't mind so much for himself, but seeing his wife work like a servant pained him. He had promised her a comfortable life, and now they were ruined.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"You don't need to keep apologizing. Things will be what they will be."

"I don't know where we'll live after we sell the house...I've failed you, and the children...we can't afford school now. What will become of them?"

"We'll get enough from the house to pay off the debt and make a new start, and we can teach the children ourselves."

Nachum kissed Rivka's hair. "You are forgiving."

"There's nothing to forgive, Nachum. You did your best."

Her continued denial of all his mistakes suddenly made Nachum break. He started saying all the things that he didn't want to say, but that he had to say. "I was a fool to free our slaves two years ago, and a fool to buy so many more—with borrowed money! Maybe I was wrong to own slaves in the first place. There was always a part of me that didn't like it—"

"You were the best of masters—"

"I was a fool!"

Nachum shoved a pile of plates into a cupboard, but they slipped and shattered all over the floor. He shouted incoherently.

Rivka eyed him, trying not to laugh.

"I'm sorry," he sighed.

"Yes, _that_ you may apologize for."

They were sweeping up the shards when there was a knock at the back door. Nachum opened it to see a beggar, who bowed and asked for something to eat. It was common these days for ex-slaves to beg at kitchen doors.

"I...of course, come in."

Nachum gestured to a stool at a table and the man sat. Rivka brought him sliced bread, a bowl of dates, new wine, and the last of their fine cheese. In spite of their situation, it was satisfying to watch the little man's pleasure as he ate.

"My thanks to you, master, and mistress." He said through a mouthful.

"Call me Nachum, friend. I'm no one's master now."

"You are as generous as they say."

"Who says?"

"Other freedmen on the road. Workers from your fields."

"Oh? Did they tell you their names?"

"Zimri and Misha."

"Were all three children well?"

The man nodded.

"Good. May the gods bless them. What is your name?"

"Kep. I'm from Naphe'lem."

"What happened to your hand?" Rivka asked.

"Crushed under a horse. Years ago," he answered. "I was a cheap slave. Now I'm nothing at all. Things have changed, haven't they, master Nachum?"

"Indeed."

"They said you couldn't afford to hire any of your ex-slaves. They said you were selling everything to pay a debt," Kep said with curiosity.

"Yes. I've sold most of our possessions and we will be off the land in a week. I had the foolish idea two years ago—my slaves were getting restless—to free them all and offer to keep them for pay."

"How much?"

"Two hennat a week, three for the overseers and house servants. So about half of them stayed, and half of them left. I took a loan of money and bought a hundred more slaves, promising them fair treatment and freedom after ten years. They would have been profitable enough for me to pay the debt before those ten years."

"It doesn't seem so foolish."

"Except Attolia won the war, and Attolis commanded that slaves be released or paid _four hennat a day_ , and my creditors demanded payment."

"You couldn't have seen it coming," Kep commiserated. "At the time, yours was probably the best way of dealing with restless slaves. I suppose that was when Kamet's story was going around?"

"Yes, that palace slave who escaped with the Attolians's help."

"It was inspiring," Kep nodded. "'Attolis will free us,' we said, 'Fight for Attolia and freedom!' But freedom isn't as sweet as we hoped; either people don't trust us because of the rebellions, or you can't afford to take us back for the wages Attolis demands that you pay. The empire is full of displaced slaves..." He rubbed his face. "It was immature of the king, to think he could fix the world with a wave of his hand! You must hate him."

Nachum and Rivka exchanged a glance. No one would have talked about the old emperor that way, even in the privacy of their own kitchens, and they were surprised to hear an ex-slave openly criticize the great Annux.

"It may have been... _optimistic_ of Attolis to abolish slavery so suddenly, but we don't hate him." Rivka said quietly but sincerely. "We used to justify buying slaves to save them from crueler masters, but we grew wealthy on their labor and perhaps that was unfair. I am just one woman, but I think that once things are settled, Shenenish and the rest of the former empire will see a golden age."

Kep listened to her solemnly. "I hope so. Attolis means to do good, but what does he know about people like me, or people like you? He should...what? What should he do?"

"It might help if he provided people with opportunities for work, education, training..." suggested Nachum.

Rivka said, "It's easy to sit here talking about what the king should do. Maybe we should ask what _we_ can do? Wherever we end up living, Nachum, we can be friendly and respectful to freedmen and other poor...we'll be educating our children ourselves. Perhaps we might as well teach groups of children."

"If other people would stop being horrible to freedmen and be more like you two, the king's job would be easy," Kep said. Then he stood up. "It's getting late."

"Stay the night, Kep. We have empty rooms." Nachum offered.

"No, I should be going. My thanks. My thanks." He bowed again and let himself out.

"Good fortune to you, Kep!" Rivka called after him.

Nachum began clearing Kep's dishes. "Rivka! Rivka, look!" he exclaimed. Under the beggar's plate were three large, gleaming gold coins, enough to pay their debt, keep their house, and maybe—Nachum did some estimating—keep a quarter of their land and hire servants to work it.

Rivka and Nachum turned the money over and over in wonder. Stamped on the rare Attolian coins was a very familiar face.


End file.
